


Confidentiality

by TheCakeConundrum (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctor/Patient, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, I'm Sorry, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheCakeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back by request!</p>
<p>Dr Sansa Stark has taken to the pressures of working in Aerys Targaryan Memorial Hospital's A&E department like a little bird to the wind. But when she's faced with a familiar patient, things can only get awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Ten minutes._

The numbers blinked red amid the dials of the dashboard. Sansa stared at them in dismay, as though she could will them backward by determination alone. The traffic had reduced to a snail crawl, right at the junction where the Street of the Sister met the base of Visenya's Hill. At this rate, she would not make it to work on time, and Saturdays were always busiest.

"Oh, for gods' sake!" She exclaimed desperately, letting her forehead fall against the steering wheel. Sansa rarely blasphemed, but on mornings like these she was sure even the gods would understand. Angry grey rainclouds swirled overhead, threatening a downpour she knew would only fall the moment she left her car. Some man who lived in her apartment building hadn't bothered to hold the door for her, and she'd run headlong into the glass. And to top it all off, there was an incredibly agitated motorcyclist directly behind her.

She dared to take another glance at him in the rearview mirror, only for a moment. He was tall, silhouetted against the car fumes like some intimidating retro rock poster. A helmet and pair of biker glasses obscured most of his face, but Sansa could tell by the way his mouth twitched that he was beyond irritated. _We're all annoyed that there's traffic,_ she would have shouted at him if she'd dared. _But we just have to grin and bear it._

The man's head tilted in her direction, and she could have sworn for a moment that he was looking directly at her in spite of the sunglasses. Her thoughts seemed to freeze in mild panic, though she knew it was ridiculous. It wasn't as though he had read her mind or anything. _Was it?_

A sudden growl of the bike's engine made her gasp aloud,her eyes flickering back to the road, where the traffic had cleared for a good yard or so in front without her noticing. Red faced, she peeked nervously at the motorcyclist, pressing on the accelerator with clumsy steps in her haste to move along. All Sansa succeeded in doing was stalling in the middle of the road.

"For the love of all that is good and holy..." 

A succession of beeping horns announced from behind. She tried again, managing to rev the car back to life, but as she was making to drive forward she was aware of a dark shape speeding around her. The cyclist clearly had lost all patience with her and had overtaken, missing the front of her vehicle by mere inches.

By now, she was angry, embarrassed and very, very late. So Sansa didn't give a single thought to what she was doing when she wound down the window and shouted out to the man on the motorbike.

"Slow down!"

The wind whipped her voice away, and the moment was gone. So was the motorbike. Another beep echoed from a waiting car, and she started forward sullenly, muttering to herself as she did so.

Sometimes Sansa wondered if she wasn't one of those greenseers Old Nan used to tell them about when she was younger, for she was often right in her predictions. It proved to be one of those days. Not only did she arrive half an hour late at work, drenched through to her underwear, it was also the day the department manager was doing an inspection. She got off on a warning. 

"Timekeeping is essential here, Dr Stark." Varys told her with a voice like calm water. "Best not be late again."

 _I wouldn't have been late, if that man hadn't put me into such a fluster._ Still, she didn't argue, setting down to work with gritted teeth. The waiting room was crammed, and the mixture of central heating and sodden clothes produced a humid, headache-inducing air about the place. It was all she could do not to lay her head in her hands and sob onto her desk.

_I'm in for a long day._

******

_I'm in for a long day._

His leg was throbbing and his back ached. The chair was too small, one of those cheap affairs that felt like sitting on a brick wall. Sandor stretched, tried to pop his spine in an attempt to make himself more comfortable. He winced with an audible _hiss_ when he remembered his bruised side.

There was little to do in a waiting room but _wait_. It was mid afternoon on a Saturday, and apparently ailments had no concept of weekends. The Accident and Emergency department of Aerys Targaryan Memorial Hospital was packed full of people, and Sandor watched them all sullenly. His company seemed to consist of men and women with broken limbs and cuts, old folk who'd taken a fall, and squalling brats who refused to stop shrieking for hours. It was maddening.

He had insisted to Mr Baratheon that he was _fine._ Just a scratch, really. Sandor Clegane had gotten more than his fair share of injuries in his life, and he knew which ones were serious. The cuts he'd gotten from falling off his bike that morning weren't, as he'd explained to his boss. But all his insistence had been met by deaf ears. _If it weren't for that bloody car, I wouldn't have fallen off at all._ His blood boiled at the memory. He'd overtaken some stupid driver on his way to work, a woman from what he could see, and she had called out something, distracting him for a heartbeat. 

A heartbeat was all it had taken to send him sprawling onto the tarmac. 

"Sandor Clegane." The receptionist announced, and Sandor almost groaned in relief. He had been waiting for three solid hours, and his legs had grown numb amid the pain in his thigh. Walking to the designated room therefore proved a challenge, but he merely glared at any starers. _They're all scared of the fucking Hound._

The consultant's room was cooler when he walked in, a small fan whirring away in a corner. The doctor sat hunched over the desk, her hand moving frantically as she jotted down a note. A certificate on the wall read 'Dr S.Stark' in looping calligraphy. _Stark._ The name was familiar.

"Please have a seat, Mr...?"

"Clegane." He growled, pulling the empty chair beneath him with a metallic screech. Sandor's eyes adjusted to the bright light, finally able to discern the woman before him properly. She was young, though that came as no surprise, judging by the sweetened chiming of her voice. It grated on his nerves. Her hair was bound in a plait down the centre of her back, a coppery auburn that burned beneath the industrial bulbs of the office lighting.

"You've had a fall?" She still continued to write something down, not looking up at him. Sandor thought it best. There was nothing quite so frustrating as the double takes. 

"Yes." He replied roughly, the word wrenched from him. "From a motorbike." It would be better to add that in for good measure, and the sake of his own pride. "Just a scratch though."

The doctor looked up at him, blue eyes meeting his. They faltered for a moment, and Sandor knew why. Those same eyes had been staring at him from the rear view mirror of a car that very morning, the _same_ car that had caused all the trouble. _Well isn't this a buggering surprise._ He held her gaze, silently daring her to look at him, taking in his burns, every inch of them. She did so swiftly, so much so he might have imagined it.

Dr Stark's gaze dropped suddenly, examining the blood stains on his jeans from the cut on his leg. Her expression was emotionless, clinical. But no amount of false courtesy could hide the blush in her cheeks.

"That doesn't look like a scratch to me." She stated simply, lips thinned. "Did you manage to disinfect it in any way?"

Sandor narrowed his eyes at her. Some fancy doctor she might be, but he still blamed her for his accident in the first place. "I put some antiseptic on it. Would've left it, too, but my boss made me come here." 

She tutted softly in response. "He was quite right. That looks rather deep. You may need some stitches, but it's difficult to say..." The corners of her mouth fell into a frown, and he could do nothing but note how plump and pink and perfect her lips were. Part of him ached to relish in their softness, as they could be nothing _but_ soft, to look at them. Another simply longed to take it away, to bite and lick that innocence from her. 

_Might have hit my head, too._

"I'll have to check it for myself, if you please." Dr Stark's polite words broke through the haze of his reverie. He blinked at her.

"What?"

She had averted her eyes now, reaching over to her desk and pulling on a pair of latex gloves with a threatening _snap_. "I can't assess your injury without seeing it properly. You'll have to remove your trousers. Only for a moment, I assure you."

A silence hung between them. It was awkward, palpably so, and for a moment Sandor considered getting up and leaving the room for good. Instead, his hand found its way to the fly of his jeans, and he stood, unceremoniously undoing the zip and gritting his teeth all the while. If the scars on his face weren't enough to terrify the woman, the ones on his legs certainly would, remnants of innumerable old accidents, scrapes and falls. 

He did not like to think how many were from his own brother.

She wasn't looking at him, thankfully staring up at the ceiling. Sandor pulled the jeans down far enough to expose the wound. The skin was torn, a mess of blood that was congealed in some places and fresh in others. The doctor gave a hiss of disapproval at the sight, pulling her chair closer to inspect the damage.

"This is pretty nasty." She told him, voice so melodious it was irritating. "How did you manage to fall?"

A stab of anger burned through him at that. It was _her_ , and he should have been furious. With anyone else, he would have snapped at them by now. But all he could think about was the pressure of her hand on his bare thigh.

"Some bloody driver distracted me." He managed, wanting to gauge her reaction carefully, hoping to watch the composure slide from her face. So far, it hadn't budged, her blue eyes still flickering over the raw cut. "Stopped in the middle of the fucking road."

That did it. Dr Stark's head snapped up, strands of red hair tumbling about her cheekbones. Her brow furrowed in indignation. "I _stalled._ "

Sandor let himself laugh, the sound grating. "So it _was_ you? You caused this," he gestured to his leg, "with all your fussing."

Disbelief flooded those eyes of hers, and that swiftly turned to anger. "You can't seriously be blaming this on _me_? If anything, it was your own fault! You were driving dangerously.I saw you."

His fists clenched at his sides, though he wasn't truly angry. Too much else was running through his mind for that. "Says the woman who was too busy staring at me through the mirror to noticed the traffic moving."

Her breath left her in a little _whoosh_ , and her blood betrayed her again, pooling in her otherwise pale cheeks. "I... You... Don't be ridiculous." Her face fell back to his leg, and she gave a little frown. "This isn't deep enough for stitches, but I do need to clean it."

Sandor shrugged his massive shoulders. "Go ahead. It's the least you can do." It gave him a strange sort of enjoyment, mocking her like this. Strip away her professional courtesy, her clinical disinterest, and she was no different to anyone else, any of those fools who cowered from him.

Except she was the loveliest thing he'd ever seen. And it seemed she'd stripped him already.

"The least _you_ can do," the redhead retorted as she else to take a bottle and bandages from a cabinet beside her desk, "is to drive more carefully in future. Road rage causes more trouble than it's worth."

She was _lecturing_ him, he realised. As though he were some schoolchild who hadn't done his homework. The idea was infuriating, but also rather tempting. "Is that why you started yelling at me out the window?" He bit back, as she proceeded to dab the contents of the bottle onto his wound. Sandor inhaled sharply, both from the slight sting and the cold of her careful hands. The effect on his body was beginning to grow rather obvious, with nothing but his underwear to preserve his modesty, but if Dr Stark noticed she didn't let on.

"I... I was only warning you to slow down." The doctor concluded, avoiding his eyes. "Besides, there was little harm done, was there?"

Realising his triumph, Sandor barked a laugh. "No, little bird. I suppose not."

The name left his mouth before he had time to think on it, and it did not escape her notice. Her hand stilled, as though frozen. " _Little bird_?"

"You're a chirper." He explained, hoping it would be sufficient, that she would not question further. _Gods._ He was tempted to smack his head against the wall. 

"I'd prefer it if you addressed me as 'Doctor Stark', sir." She said, in a monotony that could have only been rehearsed. "Or just 'doctor'."

She infuriated him. Her empty words, her nameless expression, the sheer _guardedness_ of it all. Sandor knew it was for professional purposes, but he'd had his fill of those indifferent stares for a lifetime.

"Fuck your 'Doctors'." He leaned a little closer, letting his breath wash over her face, fluttering in her auburn tresses. "Fuck your 'sirs'. I'm no sir. I couldn't give a shit about pretentious titles."

She stared at him, wordless, mouth slightly agape. Sandor was suddenly aware that he had, technically, verbally abused a medical professional, and that he could get into trouble for that. _Seven hells, she probably never heard a curse in her entire life._ He knew her kind, some trust fund baby or other with enough private education to sail through medical school. He could practically _smell_ it off her, the sweet aroma of success. It was a lot like lemons and lavender.

"What is your name, then?" Her voice was small, but the fact that she had spoken at all surprised him. 

"Sandor." The name sounded strange on his tongue, though it was _his_.

A small smile, so tiny he might have imagined it, tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Sandor, then." She straightened in her chair, pulling her hand away from his skin. It felt suddenly cold without her touch. "I think that's all clean now. Just needs dressing." 

Her movements were deft, the bandages applied incredibly quickly. A little too quickly for Sandor. All too soon, her hands were gone again, and she was further away. "Those need to be changed daily." She explained. "I'll make sure you're given enough bandages."

He wanted to feel her hands on him again. Just once more. "My side's been giving me trouble, too." It was no lie.

Dr Stark's brow creased in concern. "Hmm. Can you show me where?"

Sandor did as he was bid, lifting the grey T-shirt he wore to reveal his side. The muscles were sore when he lifted his arm, and the pain seemed to accumulate around his ribs. He watched as the woman's eyes, those deep pools that were still somehow warm as sunlight, travelled over the exposed skin, where his muscles rippled beneath the surface, taut and defined. It was possibly the only part of his appearance he was proud of, and Sandor couldn't help but note that her attention seemed to be _lingering_ there. He let himself grin wolfishly, an expression that did not go unnoticed by the doctor. She shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of what she had been doing, and set to focusing solely on his ribcage. 

Her fingers were light, dusting over him like feathers. She had disposed of the bloodstained gloves, and the warmth of her pulse beneath the pads of her digits was close to maddening against the dull ache in his side. He watched her for what seemed an age, noting her proximity, the way her scent hung in the air between them.

"Can you breathe in?"

Again he obeyed, inhaling deeply and holding the air within his lungs. She nodded at him, and he released it sharply, wincing at the stab of pain it produced.

"Nothing broken." Dr Stark told him, with a timid half-smile. "Just bruised. A few pain killers should do the trick, though I would refrain from doing anything strenuous for a good while."

She moved to take her hand away, but he caught it, holding it against him. Neither of them spoke, though the young woman looked at him in utter shock. What was there to say to her? He didn't know himself, and so he kept his silence, just watching her. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and knew that she must feel it too, hammering against his ribs like a war drum. The taut feeling in his throat was confusing, something he hadn't felt since he was no more than a teenager. _A woman puts her hand on your leg and you're pining over her like a green boy, damn you._

Still, she didn't protest, her surprise fading away into something else, something he couldn't quite name but enjoyed immensely. Her cheeks had reddened, and her breaths were laboured, tremulous. Was it him, or was her face moving closer, millimetre by millimetre? Sandor's eyes flickered to her mouth, tempted and bemused _ever_ so slightly terrified...

And then the door opened behind them, squeaking on its hinges. The two of them sprang apart as though they had been playing with fire, and turned to face the intruder.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain was still falling when Sansa finally finished work. The sky had darkened with inky clouds, and the wind was enough to cool her overheated face within seconds of leaving the building. By the time she made it to her car some yards away, she was shivering.

Her fingers fumbled with her car keys in her attempt at haste, and she almost dropped them altogether when a voice spoke up behind her.

“Busy day, eh, Doctor Stark?”

Spinning on her heel, Sansa took in the sight of Jaime Lannister leaning against the car in the space opposite hers. He was in the process of opening his own door, his usual easy smile plastered onto handsome features. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the slight smugness in his green eyes. Not a droplet of water spattered his shirt. _Someone clearly remembered to bring their umbrella today,_ Sansa noted bitterly as she returned his smile, albeit with difficulty amid her chattering teeth.

“When isn’t it busy in A and E?”

Jaime laughed at that, nodding his golden head in agreement. He knew the strains of the department as well as she did; he was a nurse there. “Good point. There was some interesting company there today, though, as I recall.”

“Oh?” Sansa pretended to sound vaguely interested, the keys inevitably slipping from her numb fingers into a puddle at her feet. With a sigh, extremely aware of the dull ache in her back, she stooped to retrieve them.

“Yes.” Jaime continued, ignoring her small predicament. “I was walking out of Pycelle’s office, when who should I see coming out of your room but the Hound himself.”

“The Hound?” _What on earth is he on about?_ The puddle was icy, and as her fingers closed around the keys a shudder ran up her spine. 

“The ex-boxer,” the man called over, again offering no assistance. “Sandor Clegane.”

Sansa went to stand up so sharply she smacked her head against the wing mirror of her car. Hissing curse words she’d never normally approve of, scalp throbbing, she peered over at Jaime. He was watching her with surprise. 

“You met him, then?” He laughed.

Feeling the warmth flood her cheeks again despite the cold, Sansa straightened, rubbing the top of her head with as much dignity as she could muster, determined to seem utterly nonchalant. Determined not to let herself think about the scarred man she’d treated earlier that day.

“I must have, if he was coming out of my room.” She had managed to fit the keys inside her car door, refusing to look over at Jaime. She did, however, hear him scoff.

“You can’t have missed him. Tall guy, _enormous_ even. He’s got these horrible burn scars all down one side of his face.”

Forgetting her own resolutions for the second time that day, Sansa frowned over at the blonde man. “They aren’t that bad.”

“So you remember him?” Jaime grinned at her again, amused by something she clearly wasn’t privy to. “Funny. I’ve known Clegane for years, and I’ve never seen him quite so flustered as I did today.”  
_Flustered?_ That seemed to be a good word for how she was feeling herself, pink-cheeked and wordless. “We shouldn’t really be talking about him. Confidentiality and all that.”

Jaime only nodded wisely in response. He didn’t seem to be in any rush, despite the fact that the rain had begun to take its toll on him as well. In his hesitation to get into his car, raindrops were dripping off his nose, and his usually golden locks starting to darken with the water. “That _would_ be a good point, except we’re not discussing his medical information.”

Sansa opened her mouth to retaliate- but realised Jaime had the right of it. With a resigned sigh, she opened the car door and slid inside. “Goodnight, Jaime.” She called across, ready to close the door on the awkward conversation he’d started, when he called out again.

“Wait, Sansa.” He rarely ever called her that, so she paid attention, glancing innocently over at him, keys ready in the ignition. “We’re having a party the Saturday after next, eight o'clock at the Gatehouse Gallery. An engagement do. So naturally you’re invited."

Temporarily forgetting her frustration, Sansa broke into a genuine smile. “Why, Jaime, I’d love to come. Thank you _so_ much for asking politely.”

He rolled his green eyes, the corners of his mouth rising. “I’ll see you there, Stark.”

With a final nod to each other, both Jaime and Sansa had gotten in their respective vehicles, slamming the doors shut and starting the ignition. Sansa dared a small wave to her colleague as she pulled out of the car park, but once Jaime was out of sight, her mind turned elsewhere.

 _Why did he bring up Sandor Clegane?_ Jaime knew him, apparently, but that still didn’t explain why he’d decided to fill Sansa in on the fact. Mr Clegane had been her patient for all of ten minutes, while she’d patched up a particularly nasty cut on his leg and checked him for any other injuries he might have incurred as part of his motorbike accident. _An accident you caused_ , her mind added unhelpfully, making Sansa want to bury her face in the steering wheel in embarrassment. His sudden appearance in her office had been mortifying, certainly- but not quite so much as when her door had flown open on both of them, noses separated by mere inches, the man’s huge hand on her wrist, holding her to him…

 _Oh, gods._ They’d practically jumped apart when Varys had poked his bald head into the room, the lights reflecting garishly on his scalp. _“We’ve moved the departmental meeting up to Thursday, Dr Stark.”_ The man had told her in that soft, precise voice he had perfected to an art. Why such information couldn’t have been kept until the patient had left was a mystery to her, but Sansa had nodded politely, forcing away the bizarre sense of disappointment welling in her chest as she realised whatever momentary spell she had been under had shattered.

Sandor Clegane had risen hastily to his feet, all broad shoulders and purposeful gait, and strode out of the room. The bandages she’d set aside for him had vanished, too. _I suppose that’s some consolation._ Really, Sansa mused as she turned off another junction, rainwater spraying in a tidal wave over one side of the car, it was lucky they’d been interrupted. His hand on her wrist  
had been warm, insistent. Their faces had grown rather close together. _Too close_.

Sansa resolved firmly as she pulled up outside her apartment building that it was for the best that he’d left when he had, before either of them had done something idiotic. No, she’d forget it had ever happened, and wouldn’t so much as spare a second thought for Mr Clegane. _Whoever he is._

It wasn’t as though she would ever see him again.

*****

“I still don’t see why you invited me.” Sandor took a sip of wine. It was red, rich and sour and dark, the sort he’d enjoy more in the quiet solitude of his own flat. As it was, a room full of strangers seemed almost a waste of good alcohol. He drank it anyway.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Jaime enquired, with an easy laugh. “I’ve known you longer than any of these people.” He gestured around the room almost lazily, but Sandor’s suspicion was not lessened. It was true enough that he had known the Lannister man since he had been a teenager, but they had never exactly been friends. _Friends_. His mind scoffed at the idea. It was a well-known fact that the Hound had no use for friendship. 

Hells, Jaime Lannister hadn’t even deigned to say more than a passing greeting to his sister’s employee until recent months. _Ever since he met that woman of his,_ Sandor mused, casting a careful eye about the place. _She must have knocked some manners into him._ He’d never given a shit about politeness himself, thought it pretentious and utterly unnecessary, but the change in Jaime was notable. The cause of this turnaround was standing not far away, laughing heartily at something a friend was saying. _Bugger me, she’s tall,_ Sandor thought, only slightly shorter than himself. Her straw-coloured hair had been teased into short curls, and though she was certainly no beauty, he supposed she was pleasant enough. _A far cry from Cersei._ That was by no means a bad thing either, in his estimation.

“How’s business?” Jaime asked him casually, sipping from his own glass and letting his gaze linger on his fiancée. Sandor fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Same as always.” _Fucking tedious._ There was very little to do at the Baratheon household; ridiculously large as it was, its occupants were in no danger. He’d already seen to that as their head of security. Mostly Cersei had him accompany Joffrey whenever he left the house. _Jumped-up little shit._ The thought of it made Sandor’s head ache acutely, and he drained his glass. “Where is it you work again?”

A smile, the motivation for which Sandor couldn’t fathom, twisted onto Jaime’s mouth. “Up at Aegon’s. A and E department.”

“Sounds busy,” he replied roughly, wishing there was more wine. He’d be needing a barrel if he was to get through the next few hours. 

“It can be,” Jaime confirmed, “but I enjoy it.” His green eyes were still fixed across the room, where Brienne was likely still standing. “On another note, I don’t think I’ve introduced you to my fiancée yet.”  
When the man began to make his way through the crowded room, Sandor was forced to follow suit, muttering curses softly under his breath. Why in the seven hells had he even come? _Free food,_ his brain reminded him. His mouth twitched. 

“Brienne, this is Sandor.” Jaime said, when he approached them. He hadn’t been wrong; Brienne was close to his own height, and Sandor would have been lying to say it didn’t disconcert him a little. She gave him a broad-mouthed smile. “He works for Cersei, but I’ve known him since we lived in Casterly Rock.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Brienne said.

 _Liar_ , he thought, but he couldn’t blame her for it. Sandor found himself unsure of what to say; all he really longed to do is ask where the food was. Jaime was staring at him expectantly, and even Brienne seemed at a loss by his silence, so he finally resorted to holding out his hand. _What are you doing, dog?_ his mind demanded, even as Jaime’s fiancée gave a soft laugh and shook it.

“Oh, sorry,” Jaime spoke, interrupting the awkward greeting between the two. Sandor glanced at him; to his own surprise, he remembered that Brienne had been speaking to someone before Jaime had introduced him. “Sandor, this is Sansa. She’s a colleague of mine.”

It was clear by the heat in her cheeks that Doctor Stark had been trying to extricate herself from their conversation when she was intercepted. She raised hesitant blue eyes to Sandor’s; eyes, he thought with a strange tension in the pit of his stomach, that he’d been unable to keep from his mind for two solid weeks.

_Fucking hells._

The little bird looked almost as surprised as he felt. After a heartbeat, however, her lovely features had schooled themselves into an expression of polite neutrality.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the redhead offered, her composure broken only by the pink breaking through the cream of her complexion. Sandor could have sworn he saw Jaime smirk in the corner of his vision, but he would ignore that for now. _Time enough to question the smug bugger later._

Sandor said nothing, just gave a terse nod of his head. His mind was still replaying their last encounter, rendered clear as day by the industrial lighting of the examination room. Her soft little hands on his skin, though he had reminded himself since that it had all been a mere necessity. _That look on her face wasn’t, though_. He’d caught her wrist in his hand, watching her plump little mouth, thinking what it would be like to nip at it with his teeth. But her breathing had definitely heightened. She had certainly moved closer.

_You’re a bloody fool, Clegane._

“Oh, Jaime, there was someone else I wanted you to meet. Would you two excuse us?” Brienne had taken her fiancee’s arm, and with a smile to both Sansa and himself she was leading him towards the far side of the room. The woman looked like she wanted to sink into the floor, Sandor thought as he watched her. _Bugger that. I can’t look at her there._

After what seemed ages, she finally dared a glance back up at him. “I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea-“

“I’d be here?” He finished for her. Her blush only deepened. “What a shame this must be for you. Just can’t get rid of me, can you, little bird?”

He was probably toeing the line, bringing up the idle comment he’d made on their previous meeting, but he’d enjoyed watching her squirm then. It was no different now. Embarrassment suited her.

“Jaime mentioned he knew _of_ you,” Sansa continued, as though he hadn’t interjected. She was obstinate, he recalled; it only made the need to peel away at her courtesies more vital. _Or peel away at her clothing,_ his mind offered unhelpfully. He barely knew this woman, and he was thinking of undressing her. He truly was a dog.

He couldn’t quite find it in himself to care very much, either.

“I didn’t know you two were friends,” she finished, blissfully unaware of the lascivious path Sandor’s thoughts had taken. _That’d give her something to blush over._

He couldn’t help the wolfish smile that wormed its way onto his face at her words. “Been talking about me, have you?” 

Her eyes widened. “No! Jaime just… mentioned that he’d seen you in A and E the week before last.” Sandor watched her swallow hard, following the bob of her throat, pale and vulnerable above the neckline of the sensible navy dress she wore. If she sensed the hunger in his gaze, she did not let on, continuing her chirping. “He… uh… mentioned you used to box?”

 _Damn Lannister and his damn mouth._ “That was a good while ago,” Sandor replied, a little too harshly. “I work in security now.” It didn’t sound particularly impressive, but he wouldn’t embellish the truth. That would only make it a lie.

“Oh,” the little bird breathed, clearly trying to be polite. “That sounds… interesting.” He scoffed.

“It’s fucking tedious is what it is,” he replied gruffly, “but it pays the bills.”

Though she flinched somewhat at his language, the girl made no reply. She too had a glass of wine in her hand, except hers was almost full, and contained what looked like champagne. A pause settled between them; awkward on her part, and opportune on his, for it gave him a few moments to admire her. She _was_ a beauty, that much was certain. He’d told himself his mind might have exaggerated her loveliness; the confirmation of it was somewhere between relief and agony. It would make it all the easier to envision her while fucking his hand in the near future, but it also brought about the certainty that she was forever out of his reach. 

That didn’t stop him from watching her, though. She seemed to be debating what to say next, and it irked him. That she was bright was a certainty- she was a bloody doctor after all- and her wit was wasted on courtesy. He’d put a stop to that first as last.

“If you’re thinking of something polite to chirp at me, save your breath,” Sandor said as he scrutinised her face, lifting the wine glass to his lips until he recalled it was empty. To his amusement, Sansa’s brow furrowed indignantly.

“I wasn’t-“

“You were, and we both know it.” Sandor smirked at her. “Enough of that. I couldn’t give two shits about small talk. Say something honest.”

She eyed him in wary confusion, seemingly forgetting her earlier inability to hold his gaze. But then she lifted her chin, appraising him haughtily. Testing him.

“You’re incredibly rude.” She took a sip of champagne through pursed lips. Sandor, however, only barked a laugh.

“Good. Anything else?”

One auburn brow lifted, a perfect arc of disapproval. “You enjoy being told that you’re rude?”

“It’s the most truthful thing you’ve said all evening, I don’t doubt.” He took a single step closer, but she was unmoving as stone, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her composure slip. “I enjoy telling the truth, little bird. That’s what’s making you so nervous.”

Her face was almost impassive. “I’m not nervous, Mr Clegane.”

Something flared in his veins at the use of his surname; it was cold, impersonal, another thing that bound him to Gregor’s reputation. He chuckled mirthlessly.

“I think you are,” he insisted in a low voice, leaning toward her a little, almost unconsciously. “Are you thinking about the last time we saw each other?”

Sure enough, a blush pooled in her cheeks again. Averting her eyes to the rim of her glass, it took Sansa a few moments to answer him. “Why would that make me nervous? You came to see me as a patient, and I treated you as such.”

“I came to see you after you made me fall off my bike,” he reminded her, the corner of his mouth curling. He’d forgiven her for that the moment he’d stepped out of her office, but he wasn’t about to admit it, not when it made her redden so prettily. “Don’t you recall?”

When her eyes lifted to his again, Sandor found that they were narrowed slightly. “That was an _accident_ , and if anyone has to be _embarrassed_ about that day, it should be you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.” Realising that her voice had risen in her frustration, the little bird softened her tone when she spoke again. “I seem to recall you tried to kiss me.”

The response he’d been forming died on his lips. _Seven hells._ He’d certainly _thought_ about kissing her, and doing much more, but he’d not acted on it. All he could remember was the sudden proximity of their faces, and _hers_ had advanced just as much as his did. To hide his surprise, he gave a low laugh.

“I never tried to _kiss_ you, girl.”

The pink in her cheeks was now a flaming scarlet. “I… what? Yes, you did! I remember.”

“I don’t,” Sandor countered, smirking. “And believe me, if I _had_ kissed you, or at least got anywhere close, I’d know.”

Sansa opened her mouth, about to make some retort, but soon closed it again, stricken. _Poor little bird,_ he thought, watching her discomfort heighten. Her brow was furrowed, and he knew that she must be recounting the events of that day in her mind, trying to confirm her own story. Her eyes suddenly widened, and she took a bigger sip of her champagne, the blush spreading to her neck now. _Just as I thought. She must have imagined it._

The thought was beyond gratifying.

“I… my apologies.” The doctor looked thoroughly shamed, the grip on her glass tight enough to whiten her knuckles. Sandor felt himself grin.

“I didn’t say I hadn’t _thought_ about it, little bird,” he offered roughly, as casually as he dared. Her face snapped up at that, mouth slightly open in surprise or indignation. _Or both, most likely._ He shrugged. “What? Sue me.”

The little bird’s lips thinned at that, her previous embarrassment dissipating somewhat at his comment. It seemed that the majority of it had come from imagining an expression of desire he hadn’t felt; little did she know how much of that feeling he’d harboured for her since walking into her examination room two weeks prior.

Finally, she gave him a small smile.

“Maybe we should start again.” Moving her glass to her left hand, she held out the right between them with business-like certainty. “Hello, I’m Sansa Stark. I’m a doctor at Aegon Targaryan Memorial Hospital, and I love lemoncakes.”

Sandor snorted, though he shook her hand anyway. “Sandor Clegane. I work as a glorified bouncer for the biggest bunch of pricks I’ve ever met. I don’t like most things.”

“I’d gathered,” the redhead replied wryly, smiling despite herself. “It’s lovely to meet you, Sandor.”

A shiver ran down his spine at the use of his name. She’d said it the last time they’d met, though there was something different about uttering it away from the clinical surroundings of a hospital room.  
Sandor inclined his head in mock gallantry, and the last of her discomfort seemed to flee Sansa.

“Likewise, little bird.”

***

“Well, tonight was a success,” Jaime said with a languorous stretch, pulling his arm across her shoulder in the process. Brienne rolled her eyes at him, trying to fight the joyful smile that wanted to spread onto her face.

They were the last ones to leave the party, abandoning the small gallery space it had been held in to the care of the cleaners, and the stairwell echoed with the sound of their foosteps as they descended side by side. It was a little ungainly, seeing as Brienne was a few inches taller than her fiancée, but she made no move to remove his arm.

“I agree on all fronts except one,” Brienne replied, her voice reverberating off the exposed brickwork of the walls.

“And what is that?” Jaime enquired in his usual smooth tones, though she could tell he was truly interested. It had taken two years of quarrelling, one of botched dates and a ring on her finger to make her realise that Jaime Lannister was not quite as impervious as he seemed.

“I did as you asked, and helped you introduce Sansa Stark to Sandor Clegane-“

“Reintroduce, you mean.”

“Yes, alright, smartarse. Anyway, I didn’t see anything particular between them. Are you _sure_ you got that right?”

“You didn’t see Sansa’s face when I mentioned him,” Jaime told her, as they turned down another landing towards cooler air and the exit door. “And _I_ on the other hand maintain that there was a spark between them. I’m very rarely wrong about these things.”

Brienne rolled her eyes again, but Jaime only laughed. “What is it? I only want everyone to be as happy as _we_ are.”

“You’re a shameless liar, Jaime Lannister,” Brienne admonished, a laugh on the edges of her voice. “You just like the satisfaction of being right.”

“That, and I owe Sansa a favour.” His fiancée gave him a querulous look, and he sighed. “I might not have mentioned that she was the one who convinced me to ask you out. She even told me what restaurant to pick.”

His face was wary, as though he feared her response, but Brienne gave a loud peal of laughter. “Even _I_ could have guessed that much, Jaime. You’d never have picked such a nice place in a million years.”

“You always have such faith in my decisions,” he mused, so sadly that Brienne thought it a pity he’d never gone into acting. 

They had reached the door, and the sudden rush of cold night air as they stepped outside made her shiver. 

“I have _every_ faith in you,” Brienne told him as they made their way along the pavement, stepping between pools of garish lamplight. “Just not in your abilities as a restaurant critic. Or a matchmaker.”

Jaime’s gaze was fixed across the street, where railings bordered the shadowy expanse of a park. For a moment, she thought he’d not been listening, and was about to elbow him when he turned back to her, grinning triumphantly.

“I wouldn’t be too sure on that front,” he said cryptically, before nodding towards the opposite pavement again. Brienne frowned, glanced over- and almost gasped. A car was parked a little further along, and two figures leant against it. One was enormous, tall and broad even in the uncertain glow of the streetlight above them. With him, his hands in her hair and hers on the sides of his face as they kissed heatedly, was a slim young redhead. She wore the very same dress as Sansa Stark.

“Well, fuck me.” Brienne never cursed, but her surprise was so great and begrudging that she felt the situation called for it. _Jaime will be smug as anything for weeks._

“I intend to,” Jaime replied with a self-satisfied grin, “but I’m a classy man, wench, so take me home first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one I haven't updated in forever. But here it is! And it's finished, which is rare for me. This was meant as a short one. 
> 
> I'm actually incredibly glad I included Jaime and Brienne in the re-write of this one. *stage whispers* I ship it.
> 
> Let me know what you think, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> I actually loved this when I wrote it, but to say I have confidence issues is an understatement. But I got asked by a couple of people where it had gone, and I missed it, so I brought it back! Only slightly edited, but more characters included now [Because everything is better with Brienne in it, period.]


End file.
